Very old are the woods; 
And the buds that break 
Out of the brier's boughs, 
When March winds wake, 
So old with their beauty are-- 
Oh, no man knows 
Through what wild centuries 
Roves back the rose. 
Very old are the brooks; 
And the rills that rise 
Where snow sleeps cold beneath 
The azure skies 
Sing such a history 
Of come and gone, 
Their every drop is as wise 
As Solomon. 

Very old are we men; 
Our dreams are tales 
Told in dim Eden 
By Eve's nightingales; 
We wake and whisper awhile, 
But, the day gone by, 
Silence and sleep like fields 
Of amaranth lie.